Ode to my new bed

Pretty, isn't it?

Although we've only had you for a short time, I feel like it's been much longer than that.

Whenever I lie down, I think to myself, "Why don't I hang out here more often??" If only I could...

You're soft, comfy, and big enough so that I almost don't hear my husband snoring. (Almost. It's not a magic bed.)

You're 2—hooray!

Dear twins,

Remember when you were tiny and you weren't getting enough breastmilk from me so you cried and cried? And then we started you on formula and A2 was in heaven, but N decided to have reflux and puke up every meal?

Yeah, me neither.

I'm so thankful that those crazy, nauseatingly exhausting days are gone. And I'm so thankful that I have selective amnesia, and can simply choose to remember the good times.

I love to watch you learn and run and play and discover the world. It's so fascinating to me that two people who shared the same womb can have such different personalities. But I think your wonderful differences complement each other. You complement each other.

I'm so glad that I get to be your mom—that I get to watch two precious people grow up at the same time. It's loud and crazy and tiring, but when both of you give me hugs and pat my back and grab onto my leg while I'm trying to walk, it is so very sweet.

Happy birthday, sweet babies!

Love,

Mom

Spray paint and piggy banks

For a while now, I've been meaning to write about our neighborhood—about the dichotomy that has presented itself in the fact that our immediate area doesn't have any fences. In theory, I love this. It gives a great open feel to things, whereas in our last neighborhood, everyone had fences and I felt like I never saw my neighbors. And my kids can run all over and play with tons of kids and it's great.

Alas, there is a flipside. Because there are no fences, my kids don't always feel the need to tell me where they are going. And so, they'll tell me they're jumping on the next door neighbor's trampoline. When I go out a while later to check on them, they're nowhere to be found. This scenario happened on Monday. T ended up at a different house, playing with two of his friends. We'll call them T2 and C. The three boys (apparently T2 was the mastermind) decided it would be fun to paint things with spray paint. Like, say, the stucco and brick of C's house. And the side of his dad's old Mustang. And the driveway.

Freakin' awesome.

The real kicker is that I didn't find out until later that night, after I had taken all five kids to the pool with no other adults with me. I did it by myself and everyone survived and it was actually fun. I came home, feeling good about the world, to a message on my answering machine from C's mom. And the good feelings went away. C's mom, to her credit, has been amazingly kind and understanding about the whole thing. Much more so than I would be, if they had done something like that to my house.

After we sufficiently reprimanded T, we sent him to bed. The next morning, I had him empty the contents of his piggy bank. I took it to one of those Coinstar machines, and put everything in it. Then, we took the $20 that came out of it over to C's mom last night. T was sad, but he seemed ok with giving all of his money to help pay for the (no doubt) expensive cleaning materials they'll need. And, all three boys are going to help clean the driveway (with soap and water, because we don't want them to be around the toxic cleaners that will actually get the spray paint off). And at this point, I don't know when I'll be ok with T playing with friends again.

I'm really trying to see this as a teaching moment and hoping, hoping, hoping that this isn't a harbinger of badness to come.

Thoughts on a Sunday

I'm grateful that my parents took me to church every Sunday when I was growing up. I'm grateful that my mom took five little girls to church, often by herself because of my dad's time-consuming callings. I'm grateful that my parents taught me that on Sunday, you go to church. Because, frankly, my conviction to teach my own children that is about all that keeps me going sometimes. Because it's hard. And it's been hard for a long, long time.

We tried splitting up the kids into two rows during Sacrament meeting yesterday, but that didn't seem to help the general state of reverence. Also definitely not helping things was A2's "yell if I'm sitting in the row and yell if you take me out into the foyer" attitude about the situation.

The kids who sit behind us in Primary sharing time sing much, much too loudly. They're the kids who start yelling when the chorister asks everyone to sing their best. And they do it on every song. I'm surprised I don't get more Primary-induced migraines.

So, it's hard. But we go. And we take our kids because we love Heavenly Father and it's where He wants us to be. And maybe if we keep going—and do our best to have a decent attitude about it—maybe, just maybe, we'll catch enough of a sacrament talk to actually learn something.

Please tell me I'm not the only one...

... who longs for cooler fall days and three out of five children in school all day?
... who looks forward far too much to the short hours between kid bedtime and adult bedtime?
... who loves her children but frequently cringes at the sound of "Mom!"

We've just launched yet another in a long, long line of programs designed to help motivate our kids to obey, respect, and generally be more pleasant human beings. It was prompted by my complete breakdown last weekend and withdrawal from the kids (the older ones, anyway) for a day or so. I had just had it. And I realized that being around them wasn't the best thing for them or me.

So, we're working on breaking three bad habits over the next 30 days. They've each got calendars to chart their progress. I'll pull out random rewards for the kids who do well on a certain day and we'll see what happens. So far, H and S had a pretty good day 1. T... did not. We'll see how the rest of the month goes.

Independence Day

A few months ago, my husband said he thought it was interesting that as a country, we've kind of stopped calling the 4th of July by its proper name—Independence Day. And that got me thinking. Sure, it's fun to light fireworks and eat mass quantities of grilled meat, but the real importance of this holiday lies in the name. Independence Day. This is the day we're supposed to celebrate our independence... our freedom to live where we want, express our beliefs, and succeed and fail in whatever job we want to have. I've become very grateful over the last little while for the extreme sacrifices that the founders of this great nation made to ensure our freedom. They were men and women—white and black, rich and poor—who worked and fought and often died because they believed that America was a special land set aside by God.

And I'm very grateful for the people today, both here at home and abroad, who work every day to make sure we don't lose those freedoms. May God bless the USA!

"I love this nation. It is my firm belief that the God of Heaven raised up the founding fathers and inspired them to establish the Constitution of this land. This is part of my religious faith. To me this is not just another nation. It is a great and glorious nation with a divine mission to perform for liberty-loving people everywhere."
Ezra Taft Benson

Dad and the kids in the tent for a backyard campout

A few neighborhood kids joined us for fireworks.

A2's new haircut

Silly N

Sorry about the full mouths. I take what I can get for pics of these kids.

Monkey lady

This photo perfectly describes N's monkey personality. Last night, we went back to our old neighborhood for the annual summer BBQ. N saw her sister's bike and decided she needed to get on it. Never mind that it's taller than her and there's no way she could actually ride the thing. In her mind, if she wants to do it, she does it. She also sampled a bike with training wheels and a pink scooter.

Carry on, little monkey lady!